


Displacement

by xtwilightzx (blackidyll)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: American Revolution, M/M, Nation names, The Treaty of Paris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 09:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7839556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackidyll/pseuds/xtwilightzx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s polite to knock before entering,” France calls, waving his wine glass idly over his shoulder in greeting. “I’d ask you to join me for a toast, but ah—it’s not a celebration for you, is it?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Displacement

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at [LiveJournal](http://xtwilightzx.livejournal.com/45358.html#cutid2), and migrated to AO3 for a lovely anon.
> 
> This fic is set immediately after the Treaty of Paris in 1783, which formally ended the hostilities between Great Britain and the United States of America.

There's something immensely satisfying about lounging in a brocade chair and gently swirling a glass of French white in one hand. France prefers to reserve his champagnes for when the girls are around, to lick the sparkling wine off their lips, but today he’s content to just enjoy having sunny Senegal and the island of Tobago back under his territories. He lifts his wine glass in toast to his new African colonies and his missing girls, and takes a sip of the brew within.   
  
The lock tumbles open, the wooden door swinging wide with a soft creak. France stares out the clear glass and beyond the white window frames at the wisps of clouds chasing each other across the sky; it’s curious, really, that there were no signs of a confrontation, and that his visitor didn’t come in with at least a snarl. Perhaps France should fire the guards, but he couldn’t quite blame them. They’re in the Hôtel d'York, not back at the Bastille; without plenty of backup, the guards didn’t stand a chance. It is hard to stand against any nation, much less one as volatile as England.   
  
“It’s polite to knock before entering,” France calls, waving his wine glass idly over his shoulder in greeting. He strains to hear the sound of footsteps, but the other nation is deadly quiet, silent even on the smooth wood floors. “I’d ask you to join me for a toast, but ah—it’s not a celebration for you, is it?”   
  
France whirls up and out of his chair in a flurry of coat tails and trailing white sleeves, away from the dangerous swish of a blade, the wine sloshing dangerously high in the glass and spilling over the sides. He transfers the glass to his left hand and licks the drops off his fingers, tasting sweetness and the bite of alcohol underneath. The flashing tip of the sabre retracts; France watches the glint of light reflecting off its honed edge. He turns slowly.   
  
England has yet to change out of the formal meeting clothes and he paints a strange picture, standing there in that prim and proper suit and cravat and doublet with a sabre in hand. France wants to laugh at him, but he recognizes that stance, the easy way England holds the sabre inverted, cradling the edge of the blade in his other hand. It’s a flash of England from his privateer days, and France did rather hate that particular era of England’s.   
  
France tilts his head and indicates the sabre with a nod. “Trading muskets back for the trusty blade. I see why you have such a problem with the wine. I would offer you some hard liquor, but you don’t want that either, do you?”   
  
England is a mess. He was the very picture of cold, untouchable sovereignty during the signing of the treaty, the regal United Kingdom of Great Britain. True, he stayed far back in his corner, away from the American delegates, but he had been there all the same, which France grudgingly admits is admirable on England’s part. Now, hours later in the growing gloom of the evening, England’s calm mask is gone, the dark bruises under his eyes more pronounced than ever.   
  
France places his glass on a side table and steps forward, hiding his unease and concern under a smirk. “Thank you for Senegal and Tobago.”

England’s expression could be carved from stone, he’s so pale and still in the darkness, but his eyes track France with uncanny sharpness.  
  
France passes by the door frame and wonders if any of his guards are conscious out there.  
  
“Remember the ten articles your representative signed,” he says. England’s grip around the sword handle is so tight that his knuckles strain white, and France lets out a soft exhalation, one that he allows to grow into heavy sigh at England’s continued reticence.

“‘The British Crown and all heirs and successors relinquish claims to the Government, propriety, and territorial rights of the same, and every part thereof,’” France recites with ease; he’s read over and revised the same ten articles hundreds of times for a certain nation before the decrees made it onto the treaty table. “Wielding open arms on 'neutral' grounds, where  _he_  is, might seem like an attack, no?”   
  
The sabre tip drops towards the ground, and France loses no time in reaching forward and freeing the handle from England’s sudden loose grasp. France walks to the door, glances at his guards – they  _are_  knocked out cold – and tosses the saber down the corridor. He shuts the door before the sabre has skittered to a stop, and turns the lock with deft fingers.     
  
When France turns back, England is staring out the window at the mixed blues and purples and tinges of gold still staining the sky. France doesn’t like the silence one bit – England is always loud, always nagging and irritating, and France wants that familiar nuisance back.   
  
“So, what brings you back here? The British Embassy is down the road that way.” France flaps a hand idly in the air. He’s not even pointing in the right direction, but it’s not like England would notice. “Or did you come back because  _he_ is here?”  
  
A breath shudders out of England, and France’s eyes catches on the movement. England’s chest is rising and falling rapidly. It’s effortless to know what England’s weak spots are, and it’s painfully easy to press at them until the other nation—responds.   
  
France will take anything, at this moment.   
  
“How does it feel to finally see him after these eight long years, your blonde-hair and blue-eyed angel?” France croons, inching closer as something flickers through England’s eyes, dark and turbulent. There’s barely any space between them anymore, and with the sabre safely gone, France leans forward until they’re chest to chest, his lips at England’s ear.  
  
“He looks good, doesn’t he?” France whispers. “The United States of America.”   
  
A white blur flashes past France’s eyes and his head crashes into the wall. France’s vision goes black for a moment, and when he comes to he’s coughing for air. England’s forearm is braced up against France’s throat, pushing up and forwards until France feels his windpipe constrict painfully.   
  
“Damn you,” England growls, his voice low and hoarse and full of unspoken words. “Damn you, France.”  
  
France manages to curl his lips into a leer. “—‘hat all you want –do?”  
  
England pushes up hard against France’s throat, and then he leans up further and crashes his mouth against France’s.   
  
There is anger in the bruising way England claims France’s mouth, anger in the way he bites down on France’s lower lip. England’s fingers dig painfully into France’s skull, and his eyes are wide open even as he presses up harder against France. France stares right back, England’s eyes large and incredibly green from that close, and reads the fury and loneliness and grief in their depths.   
  
France curls one hand against England’s neck, the skin hot and feverish under his touch. And because England can’t seem to stand any gentleness at the moment, Frances presses hard into the kiss, and bites back. 


End file.
